


Souvenir d'un lieu cher

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lyrical stream of consciousness in which basically Watson is gaga about Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenir d'un lieu cher

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely elina_elsu, whose prompt was this gorgeous musical piece by Tchaikovsky: ["Melodie"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xp8UNtzrq8s).

Holmes and I have been together for some years but my heart still flutters like a youth's whenever he says, “Let’s put this out of our minds for the time being, my dear.” (He omits ‘Watson’ once in a decade, or so it seems; one of those instances when an absence can weigh sweeter than anything added.) “Shall we go out for the evening? They are playing Tchaikovsky’s 'Souvenir d'un lieu cher' tonight.”

A night out with him. I often dress two hours in advance so that I can sit and watch him prepare for it. The unselfconscious movements of his arms, shoulders and chest—bare and sinewy and threatening our plans already—movements like those of fire and water. Then he puts on a layer upon layer of clothing and I, a baser man, relish the anticipation of the moment when I’ll peel off every single one of them. I don’t hide my gaze; it would be useless if he gazed back, but he doesn’t. He is already attuning himself to the evening of music as if his very soul is an exquisite instrument, taken out extremely rarely and only to sound in masterful hands.

That he should think me the possessor of such mastery is the greatest privilege and joy of my life.

His fingers dance to fix a button, to brush away an invisible spec. Until there he is: a creature of sophistication and elegance, one whose appearance cannot but reflect the neat order of his exceptional mind. He sparkles; his eyes two diamonds to the black velvet of his hair. There is a faint flush on his cheekbones that reminds me how dangerous colour is on the face of the man I call mine. His ability to transform goes both ways—he can make his audience believe they’re seeing a gaunt, lifeless man just as readily as he can make them see a handsome, charismatic one. It is my petty heart’s blessed fortune that he doesn’t care to change for anything else but his work. As for who I see when I look at him...I am beyond salvation and happy with it.

“Ready, Watson.” It’s as much of a question as it is a prompt. We leave the house, my only regret that I cannot call him mine outside the confines of our home.

We sometimes have dinner before the concert. Holmes may object, saying that digestion draws the blood away from the brain and prevents the full appreciation of music. As a medical professional I confirm the former and point out the lack of conclusive data to support the latter. As his companion, what Holmes calls my ‘surprisingly Epicurean tastes’ make me suggest that a light dinner and a glass of wine prepare the person for a night of pleasure. If he is not in the middle of a case, I take special care with the way I look at him when I say the word ‘pleasure’. Holmes’s neglect to his body’s needs is well-known. What isn’t, is his submission to them when his mind is sated, however brief the period. He submits with dedication, like he does to anything that has his focus. Unlike anything else, in this instance taking away his focus makes his submission whole.

Dinner with Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful experience on its own. His superb mind, generously applied to his companion’s entertainment as well as his own, makes him the most pleasant company imaginable. His sense of humour finds and preserves the perfect balance between the sharpness of a beautiful knife and the softness of the leather that ensconces it. His conversationalist’s skills don’t allow any of the spectacular holes in his knowledge to see the light of the candles on the table; on the contrary, he shows himself an erudite and one eager to listen and enlighten. It is often that I don’t want to leave the restaurant, such is the allure of splendid food and wine—Holmes always knows at which establishment to stop—and the dearest, most absorbing company that I can wish for.

But he is a different man than I am, infinitely better in every respect. Holmes needs music more than anything else aside from the stimulation of his brain. He flatters me when he says that having me by his side in the concert hall makes a difference to him. (For honesty’s sake, his exact words were that upon the successful completion of an interesting case, spending the following night in a concert hall with a good performance on stage and ‘his Watson’ by his side is his personal idea of heaven.)

My own words fail to describe what it is for me to be by his side when he listens, eyes closed or blazing wide open, face and heart in rapture, wrists trembling with phantom movements running through his veins. Sherlock Holmes is a fascinating creature, but when he joins the divine force that is music, either as a performer or as a listener, he acquires divinity himself and the words of a mortal should not attempt to be worthy of him.

The journey back after the concert… A walk arm in arm on a warm evening, his gloved hand glowing demurely in the night air as it taps on my forearm the tune of his rare, precious poetic comments. Or a trip in a hansom on a cold night, the darkness of our seclusion playing host to intimate musings, while we share the heat of our pressed thighs under the blanket.

At home. Alone, safe, free. How can I deny that no night out can compare to one that ends with us back in? We cross the threshold heavy with the joy of existence, ripe with the need for the other. The clothes’ time comes. Our bedroom contains us, for something must. Our mouths gasp, when they’re not busy worshipping the other’s flesh; our bodies rush to assure, to satiate and to merge, to chase all the way to the edge of oblivion.

Then we sleep, together.

**Author's Note:**

> Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/66220.html) at my Livejournal. Unbetaed—apologies for any mistakes.


End file.
